Not My Life
by CloudCuckooLandHasAQueen
Summary: Direct sequel to Not My Name: Molly has been readjusting to her new life, but she still finds that it chafes her. As doubt begins to shake the relationships around her, her world becomes threatened by more ghosts from the past. Her inability to let go might just be what destroys her in the end.
1. Chapter 1

**Sequel! Squeals! I'm so excited. Well here you go! I decided to incorporate some elements of S3 but this is still definitely AU.**

Molly sighed, leaning forward, her elbows resting on the receptionist counter of the library. It was a nice place, with all sorts of people walking in and out, but as much as Molly convinced herself she was happy there, she knew it didn't fit in with who was she again? Ah right, Molly Pyne. Molly Elizabeth Pyne, Molly Elizabeth Pyne, Molly Elizabeth Pyne—oh a man needed his books checked out. She did that now. Right. She gave him a smile as she viewed the titles. Little Dorrit, Our Mutual Friend, A Tale of Two Cities…

"On a bit of a Dickens kick?" She asked him as she took a good look at him. Good looking, sandy blond hair, fairly successful writer, here almost every day, recently divorced, abusive relationship—_she_ was the abuser. Sometimes Molly wished she could turn that portion of her brain entirely off.

"Yeah." He smiled shyly at her, tracing the edges of the books she just gave back, for some reason not leaving. Oh. He was going to ask her out.

"Hey, are you free?" She interrupted him before he could ask and she saw the tiniest shining bit of hope in his eyes. He nodded but before he could say anything, she scribbled on a piece of paper, folded it, and pressed it in his palm, "See that girl over there?" Molly nodded towards a dark haired girl hiding amongst her books, "She's twenty-five, works as a teacher, and is currently working on her doctorate. She's single because she's painfully shy and I bet she would love to have coffee with you if you're not a complete oaf. Hand that note to her, don't look at it, just do it."

The man looked a little overwhelmed and awestruck before nodding and taking the paper over to her. Moments later, they were talking, not animatedly, but in that muted way that two people who realize that there's no need to rush or shout do. Molly was quite pleased with herself and using her powers for good instead of doing something particularly horrible.

Molly Pyne was a good person. She simply had to remember that.

* * *

Theodore Asimov cocked his head to the left, and then to the right, before moving forward and inching the frame up a bit. He stepped back, viewing the work he had recently obtained from a gallery. It was a beautiful painting of a woman, circa 1865 by an almost unknown Canadian artist. What Theodore found so remarkable about it was the fact that the subject of the painting resembled his Ma—Molly—so well, even down to the distant expression the woman often made. He thought it would make a fine addition to the first floor hall to set opposite to the mirror on the other end of it.

This was his house now.

This was his family.

The closest thing he had to a daughter was always there.

He practically had a clever little granddaughter he could lavish gifts and praise on.

Even that idiotically intelligent man Molly grew so attached to could be considered part of his family.

This was his house. Therefore he had every right to hang a lovely antique painting in it. He could repaint his room simply because he knew that a month from that moment, he would still be there to appreciate the color. There was a level of peace and permanence that he found in Molly's tall skinny house that cost more than most people made in a lifetime. He could only hope the peace wouldn't be shattered. He did still, after all, lock his door and keep a gun in his bedside table. There were some habits that might never die, no matter how long he lived without the lifestyle that required them.

* * *

John Watson was immensely happy. His best friend wasn't dead after all. He had met a beautiful woman who actually wanted to properly marry him. Of course, Sherlock had met Mary Morstan, but Molly hadn't the chance yet. He did hope the women got along. They were both rather strong willed, after all. If Mary took a dislike to Molly, things would be immensely complicated. But if Molly took a dislike to Mary—well she could end up on the missing person's list. Of course, John assumed Molly had more self control than that, however he was always cautious when it came to his friends.

Molly Hooper wasn't what anyone was expecting, not even Sherlock knew. Moriarty didn't know until he was too late. John laughed cautiously. Surely everything would be fine. Everything would fall into place much better if Molly was a maid of honor instead of Mary's friend—Janice was it? No Janine.

* * *

Anna Pyne sat twisting her hair around her pencil in class, watching as the curl grasped it before falling down. She cared very little for the teacher at the front of the room, trying to teach a disinterested class fairly basic maths. Her mind was abuzz, trying to figure out what next to focus on. Her professor was going through a particularly nasty divorce, contributing to her short temper. Outside there were three older kids conspiring to keep their involvement in a student's accidental death secret. Anna would have to put an end to that one at some point. She hated secrets. They were bitter things that ruined relationships far more than whatever was being kept secret.

At lunch she drifted off alone, only to be joined by a girl who smiled too wide with large front teeth and a wild mane of reddish hair. Fiona. Anna offered a smile of her own as the girl plopped down her lunchbox.

"I like our new orchestra professor. Was it really worth all of that trouble though?"

"What? It's not like I can go up to administrators and say 'hey, I don't like this teacher because she told me I was a pathetic excuse for a human being' and be believed. Mom had me write the apology letter, but otherwise she took care of it."

"I wish my parents did things like that."

"Mom's a bit too used to me being uhh—difficult."

Fiona laughed, "I want to meet her so much! She sounds cool."

Anna's smile faltered a little, "Yeah…."

* * *

Gregory Lestrade was still trying to figure out how Sherlock and a nuclear unit could ever be possible. He was failing miserably.

* * *

Sherlock didn't sleep much, especially when he was on a case, but once he was off of it, he often sagged and wished to obtain food and sleep at the next possible opportunity. He trudged up the stairs to the room he and Molly shared to find it empty—typical. After a long hard three days, all Sherlock really wanted to do was curl up next to her, feel her hand running through his hair as he recounted the case until he fell asleep.

Sleeping with the two cats lingering on the foot of his bed wasn't nearly so inviting. He sighed, knowing Molly didn't like sleeping alone, and moved two doors down to Anna's room. Just as he thought, Molly was there, asleep with her arms around her daughter in a gentle embrace. He slipped in, closing the door behind him, and slid into the narrower (maybe they should go ahead and invest in a larger bed for the girl?) bed beside them, throwing an arm over both of his girls.

"Hmm, you don't tread light enough." Molly murmured, shifting against him.

"I always wake you up."

"Want to move to our bed?"

"No, this is fine." He pressed his lips against the back of her head and began murmuring about the case John dubbed "London's Missing Heads."

* * *

They were all more or less happy. The biggest problem with equilibrium is that it cannot be sustained for long.


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry for the delay, things have been absolutely crazy. I had a lot of things due in school, some volunteer work to do, sleeping, the accidental deletion of this chapter (from my computer. Bleck you) and a tiny dose of procrastination. Thank you all so much for the lovely response!**

Molly sat at her piano, but she wasn't playing it, instead, she rested her elbows on the polished cover, staring past it at the silk wallpaper, and at nothing at all simultaneously. She knew it probably wasn't healthy, she had been doing this more often than not, zoning out as the world moved slowly by, recessing into her mind to try and find some relic of who she actually was. The name meant nothing. It was a half truth, barely a lie to her anymore. Names weren't what gave a person their identity, but other than that, Molly didn't have much to go off of. The bits and pieces she found—not just the things she had cultivated and fabricated over time—were not truly enough to form a complete picture.

Sometimes she felt as if Molly Pyne was yet another mission, that she was going deep undercover to gather information. The trick was not to fall in love. If you didn't fall in love, all you did was break the hearts of people that never really had yours to begin with. Putting a heart in her hands was a bad idea, especially since heartbreak was often a side effect of her tasks. But no, Molly wasn't working for anyone anymore. There wasn't a single person directing her deadly hands or employing her eyes and ears, Molly Pyne really did live in a tall skinny house that looked like her younger self's creation, she really did have a daughter, and she really did have a partner—oh and a cranky old Russian with an art obsession that lived upstairs.

Snorting, Molly realized she found that genuinely funny. There were other things she genuinely liked too, not things that she had to put on for a show. She liked the feel of cashmere on her fingertips. She liked shopping for nice clothing—usually in person, because online she couldn't truly feel it until it was in her hands. She liked it when Sherlock became intensely passionate about a case he and John were on. She liked it when Anna would come up with something bizarrely wise for her young age.

Maybe in getting a job at the library, Molly was trying too hard to reclaim some bit of Madeline de Sara, a woman who was gone forever, no matter how much Molly would try to reach for her. Maybe Molly needed to spend more time trying to figure out what would genuinely make her happy, rather than cling to what used to…so what did she want to do?

Her musings were interrupted as Anna came home from school, Fiona in tow. Of course, Molly hadn't met Fiona yet, but Anna only had one real friend worth bringing home. She also mentioned something about a group project at one point. She stood up and turned around, "Hello!"

"Mom this is Fiona, Fiona, my Mom."

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Pyne." Fiona gave a small smile—_shy about her teeth, but only in front of strangers._

"We're going to be working on the thermal heating unit. Can we use the basement?"

"Of course." Molly replied, "I'll bring you some biscuits."

"Cool. Thanks Mrs. P."

* * *

"Mrs. P.?"

"What? It sounded better than Pyne. Your mum's pretty." Fiona grinned, and then her face darkened as she frowned, "I wish I looked like her—or you."

"Beauty is merely an illusion. Often a deadly one." Anna commented dryly, "Now what do you think we should do about this?"

"I dunno. These instructions are kind of boring."

"I agree."

"WANNA SET IT ON FIRE?!"

Anna took a deep breath and pinched her nose, "No, Fiona. Not after what happened last time."

Hours passed before Anna's mother called for them to come upstairs for dinner.

* * *

_Before she had fully mastered the art of it—before she became so capable of slipping into another skin, another name, another life, she once made a single mistake in a Ukrainian household where she was staying, lying low and waiting until Theo could come get her. They were dangerous and suspicious people, drug runners wary of spies, therefore they regarded her with suspicion. She met a drug lord, and went to shake his hand, but he recoiled slightly and in that instant she realized that she tried to shake hands before a door frame._

_She didn't know who made the first shot, she only knew that she was ducking and running through the streets. Lying low there became lurking in the streets, despairing, thinking that maybe Theo wasn't going to come pick her up, but he did. He fished her out of an alley, dusted her off, and took her to a nondescript hotel to clean her up._

_"You broke character."_

_"I forgot it was a tiny cultural—"_

_"Never break character when you're on a mission. You're not a little girl from Ireland, you're Masha and you're from Moscow._

_"I'm Masha from Moscow."_

_"Repeat it."_

_"I'm Masha from Moscow."_

_"Again."_

_This went on for ages until finally, it didn't even occur to her that she was lying. The next day she was Masha from Moscow and for the next six months she was Masha from Moscow. _

* * *

Sherlock didn't realize his mouth was running off until it was much too late, "You're a bit of a pyromaniac. You're mother's from Scotland, your father is from Lancashire, you have a fondness for foreign languages and thus you know probably two or three at your age, you are one of four siblings, probably one of the middle ones, and you are insecure about your abnormally large front teeth and your hair, you have been bullied mercilessly, and so you latched on to Anna in hopes that she would protect you from everyone else, which to an extent she has and—"

Molly's glare cut him off. Fiona Weiss was trembling, her hands fisted at her side, taking deep breaths in a desperate attempt to calm herself. Anna looked absolutely livid, but Theo's hand on her shoulder prevented her from flying at him. In that instant, Sherlock realized he did it again, saying out loud what everyone knew was obvious, but he wasn't supposed to bring to light anyway. A single tear streaked down Fiona's face before she dashed off, Anna at her heels. Sighing, Molly stood up, righting the chairs that Fiona and Anna knocked over in their flight. Slowly she came over to Sherlock and settled in his lap, wrapping her arms around him.

"You're going to have to apologize, Sherlock. Wait about ten minutes for Anna to calm her down." He felt her lips press against his temple, "She was just a girl, Sherlock. A good little girl that found a friend in our Anna."

"You don't care, not really. It's not logical." Sherlock murmured his reply, trying to distract himself from the fact that Molly referred to Anna as "ours" as in theirs, including him…

"Anna cares. Which means I care. Which means you ought to care." Molly looked down at her watch and stood up, All right, Sherlock Holmes. March!"

Begrudgingly, Sherlock walked up to Anna's room, where both girls sat, Fiona's head on Anna's lap, "Is your entire family like this? Can they see all that?"

"Pretty much." Anna replied truthfully.

"Even you?"

"Even me."

Sherlock decided to take that moment to clear his throat and enter. At the exact same time that Fiona's eyes widened in fear, Anna's narrowed to challenge him.

"I apologize. I tend to say what I observe out loud without thought for the consequence to those in the room."

* * *

Molly was running, the blood was pounding in her ears as she strove to go faster and further, despite only being in one place. The card was still there where she could see it, a name and a number typed out clearly, of course she already had it memorized. She wasn't going to call though…not yet anyway. She noticed him from the corner of her eye, approaching her as she turned up the speed setting on the treadmill.

"Ms. Pyne. How lovely to see you here." Mycroft spoke stiffly as he got on the treadmill next to her and put it at a low setting. "Ten miles already? Aren't you supposed to have slowed down?"

"What do you want, Mr. Holmes?"

"I don't believe you and I have had a proper talk since the resurrection and I'd like to discuss a few arrangements with you."

"Such as?"

"A new job for you."

"What makes you think I want one?"

"Obviously you're dissatisfied. Your library job bores you despite the time it gives you to read the literature you love, you have excess adrenaline from a life on the run that caused you to gain weight when you stopped and began having a sedentary job, forcing you to work it off, and you still get into fights in seedier areas every once in a while to keep yourself sharp. You're a spy, Ms. Pyne, an assassin. Transitioning for that to domesticity may be too much…even with helping Sherlock on the side. You need a real job."

"What become one of your agents?"

"Of course you'll surely consider it. After a bit of deliberation you will take it most likely without consulting—"

"Of course I'll take it. I'm bored." Molly replied quietly.

"Good." Mycroft plucked up the card, glancing at it before absentmindedly throwing it in the rubbish basket, "I don't think you'll have any need for a psychiatrist Ms. Pyne. Not being able to distinguish yourself from your covers will prove quite useful."


	3. Chapter 3

**Oh my apple sauce, I did not mean to be leaving you in the dark for so long! The past few weeks have been crazy full of mostly exciting developments.**

**1. I basically get to spend my entire summer in Austin TX. So woohoo! Goodbye middle west blues! So I had to set that up.**

**2. I got a new job that doesn't make me want to stab my eyeballs out.**

**3. I won a couple minor awards for my writing. More resume fodder!**

**4. I became a beta reader.**

**5. I've also been babysitting an adorable 2 year old.**

**6. I've slept.**

**and 7. I had a bunch of projects to finish all at once on top of the above developments.**

**Next chapter should be up sooner.**

Molly peered into the file she was given, giving a small smile before returning it to the man sitting across from her. He was too smooth to possibly be considered a good character, too perfectly normal to be normal, leaning back far too casually. Amateur. Just from his behavior, someone with a good pair of trained eyes would be able to tell that they were up to something. Yet the world kept moving on around that simple little café where they met, under the pretense of a blind date. All she needed was a bit of information on Mycroft before proceeding with working for him. It was best to have him think that he held the upper hand constantly in their interactions. She was glad that she had held out on him before. It was always better to know more than your boss, especially in regards to secrets and disposal. Molly Hooper didn't want to be burned or killed, and didn't really want Sherlock to know she was working for his brother.

"Don't you want to read it?"

"I already did."

The man nodded, "It was nice to see you again, Mariya." For one short moment, his accent shined through and Molly was brought back to another name, another place, and another life where the man in front of her was Sven Carlstrom, yet another man she wasn't allowed to love…or couldn't. This was really becoming a troubling issue, one that she didn't want to examine too closely. That's why she was distracting herself with goose chases provided by Mycroft, or digging up on the man or—or making bloody cookies for Anna's school's bloody bake sale, or composing music with the piano or viola—she just needed to fill the time and fill her thoughts so that she no longer questioned who she was, what she loved, or why she was even around.

* * *

Anna and her mother met Mary Morstan at last, but Anna immediately sensed something was off with the pair. They knew each other, Mary's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly and Molly's grin widened slightly. It was confirmed with Molly drew close and spoke with a resonating softness that Anna recognized as slightly threatening, "It's nice to see you again—or should I say nice to meet you?"

The warning in her voice was evident: Hurt any of them, and you'll most certainly pay for it.

Despite this, they both seemed to get along. Anna didn't know what this story was with Mary Morstan, but she hoped it was something fairly similar to her mother's. She liked the woman, and so did Uncle John. It wouldn't do for Mary to be hurtful or dangerous. She jumped at the opportunity to leave, hoping that her mother would disclose some information on her, but nothing was said, even as Molly walked hand in hand with a small frown tugging the corners of her lips. Something was different, something that—dare she think it—wasn't her mother at all. A certain graveness had fallen over her features and she was closing herself off again. It had been two weeks since she last shared the bed with Anna, and it appeared that she wasn't sleeping with Sherlock or on the sofa either. No, there were signs that she was going out at night, carefully wiped away by morning.

Sherlock was starting to catch on, but hadn't mentioned anything to Anna yet, even as he decided to take her along for a case.

No one ever told her anything about what was going on.

She sighed, plunging her hands in her pockets as she waited for the weird train dude to be done giving his information. Sherlock may have loved searching through the inane and useless for the useful, but she certainly didn't share that same love. His obsession with trains could be absolutely maddening. Oh well, at least Sherlock took her to get fish and chips by the end of the ordeal.

"Have you noticed anything different about your Mum?"

"Yes." Anna replied without thinking.

"She hasn't been sleeping with you—or me—or the sofa downstairs. I've checked. In fact, she doesn't seem to be coming in at night at all. She seems to be sleeping mostly during the day while you're at school."

Anna nodded, "Yes." She took a small bite of a fry—chip. Chip. Chip. Chip. "She seems happier though." Sherlock's expression suddenly grew cloudy and Anna hoped to diffuse whatever was going on in that insane powerful brain of his, "Just ask her, I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for it."

* * *

Sherlock helping in planning for a wedding was an absolutely atrocious yet oddly funny event. Molly found that she couldn't really look away as he continued to sort through colors, read books on best man speeches—there were entire books on it? The last time Molly got married, Parker's best man was drunk off his ass and still did a fine job. Funny—short—sweet. Really, Sherlock had this annoying habit of overcomplicating things. After scaring the living hell out of a man still in love with the bride, Molly didn't know what he would do to the ring bearer. Slowly the boy sat down in front of him, while Molly came from the kitchen carrying some lemonade. They boy didn't ask her how she knew he liked it, instead taking a small sip and staring down Sherlock.

"Basically a cute smile to the bride's side, a cute smile to the groom's side, and then the rings."

"No." It was like watching Sherlock argue with a smaller version of himself.

"And you have to wear the outfit."

"No."

"You really do have to wear the outfit."

"What for?"

"Grownups like that sort of thing."

"Why?"

"I don't know I'll ask one." Sherlock leaned back, "Molly, why does he have to wear the outfit?"

Molly sighed, "This was good fun until you decided to get me involved." She sat down, "Basically it comes down to a ridiculous sense of tradition and prestige. They want you to wear the outfit because you have to distinctly show that you're the boy who has the rings. It has origins in Victorian tradition."

"I don't want to."

"I don't want to be Maid of Honor either, but I'm going to anyway."

"Why?"

"Because John and Mary are good people. And there's food." Molly shrugged absently and stood up, "Sherlock, I'm sure you can persuade him."

With that Molly left. She knew he was probably thinking that she was a traitor, but she shrugged. She heard Anna stomp down the stairs, "MOM! I want a body!" Molly sighed. She should have known that was coming.

"A body?" She heard the boy ask. "Wait you're a detective right?"

Molly couldn't hear Sherlock's reply, but when she entered the room a moment later, Sherlock had his laptop open, with the boy—and Anna looking over his shoulder.

"What's in his eye?" The boy asked.

"Maggots." Anna and Sherlock replied at the same time.

"Cool."

"I know right?" Anna grinned, jumping and turning towards Molly just after she had taken a picture, "What was that for?"

"Proof that you and Sherlock can get along for when you hit your rebellious stage." Molly pocketed her mobile, "So…are you going to wear the outfit or not?"

* * *

Archie was absolutely enamored with Anna. The moment she mentioned that she thought the pageboy outfit was "cute" and that she painted the periodic table on her wall, he started following her around and Molly likened him to a puppy. Sherlock could agree, but he would have never said anything out loud. While Molly found it amusing, Sherlock found it rather alarming and pathetic at the same time. A boy of great intellect—easily likened to his own, if he were asked—had succumbed to blind admiration for another. After their initial meeting, Anna went through all the photographs with Archie, talking about the crime scenes, never once consulting Sherlock on the matter.

"It's odd." Molly had been oddly quiet, but Sherlock had grown to recognize that she was often quiet when content, so he was slightly surprised when he heard her speak. He acknowledged it with a slight tilt of the head. "They look like a reversal of us—see? Black hair, blue eyes, straight brown hair, brown eyes?"

"Facial structure is completely—"

"Sherlock. You're overcomplicating it again." Molly smiled, putting a hand on his arm, "Everything will be fine. You'll do wonderful."

Well he did wonderful…that is as long as you consider figuring out a mystery mid speech and ultimately catching a murderer at Watson's wedding…yes. Wonderful.

* * *

"Who's Mary Morstan, Mum?"

"Anna—"

"You already knew her. Where do you know her from?"

"She's just—on my radar you see? Suspicious individuals, people who have done suspicious things."

"What is she?"

"She's none of our concern right now."

"She's married to Uncle John now."

"Well…hopefully nothing will come out of it." Molly peered into her wine glass and then up at Sherlock as he left, "Oh. There he goes. Here. Finish it, but say you threw it away so I can be considered a good parent." Molly left Anna with the wine glass—and Archie creeping nearby of course. Molly had a feeling he would become a more permanent fixture in Anna's life soon enough. Sherlock stood alone with his hands stuffed in his pockets, "Come back inside, love. I do know how much you actually enjoy dancing."

"It's…odd." Sherlock spoke after a moment, "Never thought John would get married. Never thought I'd leave 221B…and frankly I never thought I would be in a relationship with you, no offense Molly."

"None taken. Mary seems nice. I mean, I knew it'd be difficult for you to accept John's significant other…."

"Not really. Mine beat a man to death with a lawn chair." Sherlock took her hand fondly, the way he did when no one else was there, bringing it to his lips, "But John accepts you."

"Oh. Everyone loves me." Molly laughed shaking him off, "And I told you to drop the Moran incident!"

* * *

Two nights later, Sherlock sat up, his fingers steepled, as Molly came in through the door. This probably wasn't what Anna had in mind as far as confrontations, but Sherlock knew that he would best be able to deduce or possibly catch one of Molly's ever elusive lies if she was caught off guard. She didn't react in surprise however, instead putting her scarf on the hook and walking into the music room where he sat in waiting.

"Sorry, just got back in." Molly smiled, "How was the case? You didn't take Anna near any dead bodies this time, did you?"

"Molly where were you?"

She shrugged, "I haven't been able to sleep."

"So that requires walking around London in the middle of the night?" No twigs in her hair, no sign she was outside for long periods of time—she took a cab.

"I took a cab around the city." Molly shrugged.

She was either very good or telling the truth. Sherlock wanted to settle for the truth. That was until Molly's scarf fell from its hook. He immediately stood to pick it up before one of the cats got to it, and that's when he smelled it. Men's deodorant and cologne. All the possibilities ran through his head as he continued to inspect her scarf, all of them involving her lying to him, and all including another man having to get close to her, perhaps grabbing the end of her scarf of embracing her. The cologne was expensive and stately, the sort that one wore because they could afford it, but not to show off. That suggested a level of class or old money—

Molly lied to him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Apologies for the later than expected post. I kind of went downhill for a while and while I'm not out of the dark yet, I still wanted to take some time to write a chapter. For more information on my sort of half assed hiatus, go to my profile page or PM me. I seriously don't like leaving people in the dark.**

Sherlock had no idea how to confront Molly with the new information he had on her. He felt almost as uncertain as the day when he thought that he might die. Usually he would simply barrel in and ask or possibly try to collect more information, but with Molly, he had to tread lightly. He didn't want her to be upset because—well an upset Molly seemed particularly volatile—and he didn't want to jump to the wrong conclusions. There were multiple conclusions that the evidence could lead to and he still didn't have enough to rule out any of the following.

1. Met an old friend she hadn't seen in a while (not likely, she doesn't have friends really)

2. Met an old colleague (But why?)

3. Affair (Again. Why? Sherlock was fairly certain that he fulfilled her criteria for a sexual partner, even if he was a rather shit boyfriend and she acknowledged that he would be a shit boyfriend ahead of time.

4. Random person bumped into her

Four was out almost immediately because it didn't have the prolonged contact the lingering scent required. Old friends or colleagues required her returning to one of her previous businesses, but there was no reason to. Molly made sure that she was set for life, as was Anna, and unless Anna was fiscally irresponsible from the moment that she's eighteen, then her children (if any) would be set as well. Besides, if it were a financial issue (again, nonexistent) she would have surely announced it (Sherlock was never one for things like bills) Mycroft would have surely intervened, or she would have stuffed everyone in 221B and abandoned the house altogether.

Sherlock really didn't see her fascination with the house. It was an overpriced house previously owned by the wealthy and reputable, but when the wealthy and reputable got too old for several flights of stairs, they sold it to Molly and moved away. But there was something—perhaps some sort of sentimental value, that dragged her and Theo to it, with Sherlock and Anna simply along for the ride. When had she taken over his life so much? He never thought he'd leave 221B, but Moriarty removed him from the country and then Molly—well Molly made him think that maybe he didn't want to go back.

0

Theo rubbed his forehead with a hefty sigh, "You join hands with another Holmes? Haven't Holmes people fucked with your life enough?"

"Sherlock is a Holmes, Theo."

"Sherlock not act like Holmes." Theo waved absently, "Not that same bit inside—evil. Yeah."

"I thought your English had gotten better, Theo. Slipping?"

"Not trying so hard. Also got off phone with friend in Kiev. Says you're all clear."

"Thanks—" Molly rose to leave, but she suddenly felt Theo's heavy hand on her shoulder.

"I warn you against using Sven."

"Why not?"

"He loves you still."

"Isn't that more of an asset?"

"Unstable man in love is no good. He's unpredictable, Masha."

"I'm just getting infor—"

"He don't think that. He thinks—" Theo paused, scratching his beard for a moment before continuing, "Flame still burns? No not right, anyway, he still thinks there's chances."

"I'll be careful, Theo." Molly pressed a kiss to his cheek, "I always am."

"I know. Where are you going now?"

"…Sven's penthouse." Theo sighed, letting her go. "Just business!" Molly shouted over her shoulder as she left, tugging her familiar scarf around her neck.

* * *

_Molly met Sven (insert any particular Nordic last name here) exactly six months after her family had been gunned down and her surviving daughter was taken. It was a year she'd like to forget. It was a year under the thumb of Mrs. Holmes. By then she had been more focused on lashing out than constructive behavior, such as looking for her daughter. A combination of recklessness, hatred for the world, and indifference led her to a little bar in Stockholm. She didn't feel like purchasing a drink—though she felt like having one, so she looked about the smoky room until her eyes landed on him._

_He was a classic northern European man, large and built without being particularly bulky, with blond hair, icy blue eyes, and he was flanked by two men who were obviously bodyguards. According to Robert, he was some sort of nonofficial government for two or three members of the European Union. All she really had to do was steal a couple files off him—most likely in his flat—however, she was feeling particularly vindictive, and particularly low, and she wanted to draw this out and toy with her prey. She slid off her stool and approached, only to be stopped by one of the guards who held a hand a little too close to her breasts for comfort._

_"Buy me a drink first. Dinner too if you're going to keep groping me." She demanded, swatting aside her hand._

_The guard didn't know what to do with her, but his employer laughed, "Let her come." She slid onto the stool beside him, brushing her hair over her shoulder._

_"Hello."_

_All he did was smile and beckon the bartender over, "Give her whatever she'd like."_

_"What wine selection do you suggest?" Molly leaned lazily to the side, glancing at Sven. His expression continued to be light and amused._

_"I suggest the…."_

_"I'll take it. Just leave the bottle here." _

_Sven laughed, "Better be worth it, that's an eight thousand sek bottle."_

_"You never know with wine. I'm a vodka expert myself, but wine's tricky."_

_The bartender returned with a pair of glasses and the wine. Sven moved to pour for her, shooing away the poor boy. "Shall we drink to something?"_

_"…to still being alive."_

_"To still being alive then._

* * *

Sherlock paced back and forth in Mycroft's office, "What is she doing working for you?"

"I asked if she would help me contact an old mark of hers." Mycroft replied.

"Who?"

"A man formerly in a position similar to mine, now reduced to running crime syndicates all over Eurasia thanks to petty emotions. Caring never was an advantage."

Sherlock thought of all the possibilities that could possibly mean, and then sighed, "What exactly is she doing?"

"She's mending a bridge. I need him back in power despite his failings."

Sherlock could have gotten into the complex nature of economics and politics that fed Mycroft's decisions, but they were utterly boring. He preferred doing the legwork in things, and solving puzzles, not watching numbers go up and down based on idiots who think they had some guise of power.

* * *

"You're no good at this, you know."

"Good at what?"

"Becoming a different person. No doubt you were good at lying and putting on a very professional looking act—but you couldn't simply become someone different. What you are is what you are, with some variation. It was interesting to me, to be honest." Molly looked at the wine in her glass, idly turning it and making whirlpools. "Why did you buy this bottle?"

"When we first met, it was under false pretenses—but this was the best wine I ever had and I couldn't even enjoy it because you completely and utterly ruined it for me."

"That was also the first time you ever had it."

"Yes. Well it was the best. Now that we are meeting and actually on the same side, I hope to taste this wine, and not have it be soured again."

Molly smiled, taking a sip and leaning back against the sofa. Sven, ever the classy sort, had a penthouse in one of the new builds in Canary Wharf. It was far too modern and clean cut for her tastes, and she found the staircase tacky, but she knew what he was going for; expensive, but devoid of any personal touches. He purposefully made the space lack emotion but display the quality firsthand without being gaudy. There was so much one could tell about another's current state of mind from their living quarters. It was why bringing someone like her there could be considered a stupid move by anyone—except someone who didn't have anything to hide. Molly for example, hated impersonal things. She liked antiques because they looked all different and sometimes a bit banged up, not this newness.

"Are you going to hurt me again?"

"Depends." Molly replied honestly.

"I'm here to discuss business and right some of the many wrongs my former employer made me partake in, not your emotional status or trust issues. Got it?"

He blinked, before nodding, "You're trying to be honest."

"Yes."

"Idiotic, but I can respect it."

"Good. Now what do you think our first course of action should be?" Molly ignored the fact that as they went over reports, Sven's hand first started touching her knee and sliding it up her thigh. She took his hand, "Focus, Sven." She muttered irritably. He pulled his hand out from underneath hers and gripped it forcefully. Molly rolled her eyes. Playing with fire indeed.

* * *

_Really it was simple. Knocking Sven Carlstrom out of favor with the leaders as the background player only took a couple files and a close call bombing. She didn't ask why it needed to be done, like everything else, she just did it. Hindsight was always what got her. It was hindsight that led her to a cheap hostel outside of Prague that was only two steps above what broke backpackers on gap years slept in. At least it had its own walls and a bed she didn't have to share with anyone, though it was a thin mattress and appallingly threadbare sheets, it was what she thought she deserved. Suddenly there was a knock on the door. She picked up her pistol and tiptoed across to make it sound like she wasn't approaching as he continued to knock. Slowly, she unlatched it and opened it, using the door as a bit of a shield in case he did intend to shoot her after all. _

_"For Christ's sake I'm not going to shoot you." He slammed the door, running a hand through his hair as he paced back and forth, "My father groomed me for that position since I was born, Mariya. Now it's gone. They've ousted me, the bastards." He sat down on the terrible bead and clutched at his temples, "You know, I was at a loss for what happened. How on earth could someone have gotten a hold of those files? It was impossible that it could've been you—but it was you." He laughed a low and hollow laugh, "You…I thought you."_

_"You let a woman into your room without previous background checks and by the time you did have someone run them, the proper credentials were already in place, matching precisely what I told you. It was foolish of you." Mariya replied, studying the ground._

_"You could have taken them the first night. Why spend six months?"_

_"I thought you knew something. But you didn't."_

_"Something about?"_

_"It's none of your concern." The coldness settled in her chest as she looked up at him with deadened eyes, "It'd be best if you do not return to your apartment. My employer thought it'd be a good finale. Government official is killed by terrorists." She took a deep and shuddery breath, "So…run."_

* * *

Theo picked up six avocados at the market, and had the worker place them in a bag for his use. Anna trailed behind him, looking at the wares and trying to mock disinterest. She rubbed her hands together nervously, and kept readjusting the knit beret she had pinned to her hair against the winds that swept through in between the large buildings occasionally. She wanted to ask something, but wasn't going to without prompting.

"What is it, little girl?"

"I don't understand people. Not really. Why do we want to make friends or love or make more of us?"

"These are large questions best for Masha."

"Mom's too busy to deal with a twelve year old's existential crisis."

"You'd be surprised. Your mother has more of those a day than a teenager."

Anna sighed deeply, "Fiona and I got into a fight again. She's freaked out because I can tell when she's on her period."

"…that is definitely one for Masha, Anna."

* * *

Sherlock sat down across from Molly as she ate her meal. It was some sort of thing with an avocado half with tuna and mayonnaise on top. He wasn't one for food, but Theo was particularly good at making things that even Sherlock could stop and eat. This, however, wasn't one of those times, as he had more pressing matters to attend to.

"How was your case?"

"There wasn't one. I was bored so I ran experiments all day—" He wasn't entirely lying. He wasn't entirely telling the truth either, and when she looked up at him, he could tell there was a hint of skepticism.

"You went and visited Mycroft."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Which really only took around forty-five minutes out of a day of boredom. He's such a tiresome person."

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I'm used to keeping such things to myself. I'll remember to try and keep you informed." Molly cut into the avocado with her fork and took a small and dainty bite, "But that means you'll have to keep me informed on your going ons as well. I won't have you running off without at least a text. If texting's too dangerous, try a note, or text a code."

"Don't hide things from me, Molly Pyne."

Molly smiled at him, "Maybe we should do something together like maybe—"

"You want to do something as benign as a date?"

"Not a date, Sherlock. I want to go on a case." Molly grinned rather deviously, "Is that all right with you?"


End file.
